


I'm ready to play today

by okaystop



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Softball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaystop/pseuds/okaystop
Summary: "Did they not have a team shirt in your size?" Lovett finds himself asking as he stood on the base, hoping he looks like he knows what he's doing. He even puts his hands on his hips for effect."Uh, what?" Hot first baseman asks, half looking at Lovett and half still paying attention to the game."Your shirt," he says. "Is that a child's small?"





	I'm ready to play today

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Centerfield" by John Fogerty.
> 
> This is slightly-edited chatfic brought about because I play co-ed rec league softball and I couldn't get this out of my head.
> 
> As usual, please don't share this with anyone involved or adjacent to involved with CM. 
> 
> \---

Honestly, the only reason Lovett says yes when Travis asks him to sub for his adult co-ed rec league softball team is that he's promised free pizza and beer and that he won't have to really even do anything at all except stand in right field and - in Travis's words - 'look pretty.'

What Travis fails to mention (and why would he, how would he even know?) is that the other team's first baseman is very hot. Like super hot. Like, okay, maybe a little 'Victorian heroine locked in an attic' hot, but that's still hot in Lovett's book.

He walks on his first at bat, only because he refuses to swing, having not swung a baseball bat since middle school gym class, and he gets lucky because the pitcher is trying too hard with some kind of fancy spin on the ball that doesn't matter to Lovett. Which is how he ends up at first base with the opportunity to ogle said first baseman up close. He has excellent calves, something that Lovett thinks is not discussed nearly enough among the hot parts of the male body, and of which Lovett greatly enjoys. Also his biceps, under the tight shirt he's wearing.

"Did they not have a team shirt in your size?" Lovett finds himself asking as he stood on the base, hoping he looks like he knows what he's doing. He even puts his hands on his hips for effect.

"Uh, what?" Hot first baseman asks, half looking at Lovett and half still paying attention to the game.

"Your shirt," he says. "Is that a child's small?"

"No, man, it's -" He kind of looks down at himself like he isn't sure what Lovett means but then the next batter hit the ball to the outfield and Lovett only starts to run because Travis yells, "It's two outs Lovett, run!" very loudly. He barely makes it to second base when the ball is caught and the inning ends.

When Travis told him he didn't need to do anything in right field, he lied. He was a lying liar who lies. Because the hot first baseman in a too-small t-shirt on the opposing team bats left-handed, and he hits a high fly ball right at Lovett. Really, in Lovett's general direction. In his vicinity, at the very least.

Not one to shy away from a challenge, Lovett goes all in. He runs for the ball and puts his glove out like he's going to catch it, but he really isn't expecting to catch it all. He certainly doesn't expect it to actually land in his open glove and then bounce up and hit him directly in the nose. "Fuck," he shouts but also - SOMEHOW - he manages to get the ball back into the glove without it ever hitting the ground. 

"GOOD CATCH LOVETT!" shouts Travis, waving his arms from the middle of the field where the whole team starts jogging back to the dugout. 

Lovett realizes his nose is bleeding only when he gets halfway there himself and someone says, "Holy shit, did you catch it with your face?"

He makes it through the rest of the game with an ice pack on his face whenever he isn't playing. "Well, I don't think it's broken," Travis tells him, but it hurts too much for Lovett to roll his eyes so he just sighs about it and waves him off. Maybe he'll go to urgent care later.

As he's getting ready to go (they lost, much to Lovett's dismay, because he hates losing at anything), the hot first baseman in a too-small t-shirt who might have broken his nose steps up beside him. "Hey, dude, sorry, uh - is your face okay? Your nose? It's not broken, is it? That was a pretty wicked catch."

Is that a slight Boston accent he detects? Ugh. A Boston bro transplant in LA. Well, there goes the last vestige of hope that the guy with the great calves might be gay. "Wait," Lovett says, eyes wide, "was I not supposed to use my face?"

The hot firstbaseman who sadly probably isn't gay laughs, his whole body swaying a bit. Lovett preens, thinks but doesn't say, it wasn't that funny, because it WAS funny and he liked making hot guys laugh. 

"Hey, can I buy you a drink?" His hand touches Lovett's arm. With intent.

Lovett looks at it, then at him, rearranging all of his preconceptions, because maybe, just maybe, he's wrong.

Then he pulls his hand away. "You know, as an apology for breaking your face."

Or maybe not. Lovett's eyes narrow. "I don't even know your name."

He smiles, his face red, probably just from the sun and, you know, exertion. "Right, sorry. I'm Tommy."

Lovett bites his tongue to keep from making a comment on a grown man using the name Tommy, but he's heard worse. At least it isn't Blake or Dann with two n's. "What kind of drink are you proposing?"

He shrugs. "Anything you want."

"Dangerous. Be careful making promises like that," Lovett says, grinning. "But sure. Text me and we'll make it a date." He holds a hand out for Tommy's phone and types in his number. Then he smirks and goes to catch up with Travis and the rest of the team.

Three days later, Tommy texts Lovett. Truthfully, after the second day without hearing from him, Lovett figured he wouldn't at all. So when the text comes at midday while he's taking a break from the writers room to make a paper airplane and try to hit Travis in the side of the head with it, he'sfloored. They makes plans for drinks that night, and Lovett writes it off as an apology for the ball to the face and absolutely doesn't ruminate on it again.

Which means that when he gets to the bar they agreed on, the closest thing to a sports bar as they got in West Hollywood, he isn't expecting Tommy to look like - well, to look like this was a date.

Tommy's wearing dark jeans and a light blue linen button down, open at the collar, his hair neat, a wave sweeping across his forehead, and he stands up with a nervous smile when he spots Lovett come in and scan for him.

"Well shit," Lovett mutters, looking down at himself, pink shorts and a tight black t-shirt. He looks good - Lovett always looks good, duh - but he wasn't treating it like a date. He could have put in a little more effort, and he regrets it, only a little.

Tommy doesn't seem to mind though, just smiles and gestures to the stool next to him at the bar. "Hey, Lovett," he says, "your face doesn't look so bad anymore."

Lovett slides onto the barstool. "I put on a whole container of cover up," he says dryly.

Tommy keeps smiling. "What do you want to drink?" He has a beer already, and Lovett's very confused. 

"Vodka soda," he says, and he watches the muscle at the side of Tommy's neck lengthen as he turns and calls for the bartender, orders the drink for him. "Did you, uh, just come from the office or something?" 

Tommy turns his attention back to him. "What? No. I - I work remotely so I - you know, didn't want to come out in my sweats or, like, shirtless."

He blushes when Lovett looks at his chest as though imagining him shirtless, so Lovett tests the waters. "I certainly wouldn't mind that though I guess there's probably some kind of no shirt, no service policy here, huh? We could have found somewhere else, if that's your go to."

"Maybe next time," Tommy says, after a minute of blushing. He goes red all the way down the sides of his neck. It shouldn't be as attractive as Lovett finds it. Tommy coughs a little, turns to get the vodka soda from the bartender and slide it over to Lovett. "So, uh, what do you do, Lovett?"

"I'm a writer," he says. "Television. What do you do?"

"Political consulting," Tommy says, "right now at least. I've been working on a spec script too, with a friend of mine."

Everyone in LA was a writer or an actor. At least Tommy isn't an actor. Lovett doesn't date actors.

"God, you're not, like, a Republican are you?"

The look on Tommy's face though. Lovett might have laughed if Tommy didn't look so offended. "Fuck, no. I worked for Obama. In the White House."

"No shit, really?" 

Tommy shrugs, like maybe he doesn't want to talk about it but it's still a surprising thing to divulge. "Yeah. Until last year."

"Wow. You know, I wrote for Hillary in '08 then got the hell out of politics when - well, you know. You were in the White House and I wasn't, so..."

Tommy leans forward, leans a little into Lovett's space. Like this is a date. Lovett keeps going back and forth about it, and he hates the not knowing, so he changes the subject, abruptly, and just asks. "Before we go any further," he says, "can I just call for a point of clarification?" Tommy, confused, nods. "Is this a date? Because you're dressed like this is a date, especially since you claim to work from home without a shirt on, and also, your first date small talk is on point, so ..."

Tommy blinks, sits back a little, and Lovett thinks, fuck, I just made this weird. "Uh, yes? I mean, I thought we were both on the same page about that."

"Cool," Lovett says. "Cool cool cool. No, I'm - all in, yeah. Just - you know, wasn't sure with your whole dudebro vibe and you did say the drink was an apology for my face."

"The face thing was an excuse. But - it doesn't have to be a date if you're not interested."

Lovett scoffs. "If I'm not interested. Why wouldn't I be -? Look at you."

Tommy kind of looks down at himself. "What about me?"

Lovett isn't on his game. He's slipping. It's good he has clarification but he isn't doing the whole, yes I'm interested, you're hot, let's flirt then maybe fool around back at my place, kind of thing. He can do better. He has to do better.

"Okay, let's try this again." He stretches out his shoulders and neck and then sets the hand not holding his vodka soda on Tommy's leg, just above the knee. "Thanks for the drink, Tommy. This is an excellent first date. "

When he smiles, it brightens his whole face. He even plays along, which Lovett appreciates. "You're welcome, Lovett. Sorry about the ball to the face. I hope you won't judge me too harshly and I'll get a second date."

"Anything that happens on the ball field stays on the ball field. Or something like that."

The date goes well, now that everyone knows it's a date. Lovett finds Tommy delightful in all the best ways, especially his propensity to turn red at just the tiniest amount of teasing and flirting. And also in the way that he laughs at the right amount of Lovett's jokes, doesn't go overboard with it. 

They end up each having a second drink and splitting a plate of nachos. Lovett's glad to see Tommy eats nachos and isn't like most other WeHo gays who won't touch the carbs and get all their nutrients in the form of a wheatgrass shot added to a kale smoothie.

"Hey," Lovett says, when it's clear they're winding down. "You wanna come back to my place?"

Tommy finishes his beer and sets it down firmly. "Yes," he says. "I do."

The best thing about living in West Hollywood is that it's mostly walkable, at least to where Lovett lives in a rented house on a quiet residential street not far from the main drag. So they don't have to call a lyft and it only takes ten minutes to get to Lovett's. Of course it's only the best thing when Lovett isn't bringing a guy home and isn't thinking about all the things they're going to do - just as soon as they fucking get there.

"Huh," Tommy says, as they turn down Lovett's street.

"What?" Lovett asks. 

"My friend lives down here, too. Small world." He smiles that wide smile, a little softly due to the beers and the night and the promise of what's coming.

"LA's like that," Lovett hums. He gets out his keys and lets them both in without turning on a light. He doesn't remember the state of his living room, and they're not going to be in there for long besides. Probably.

"So, uh - " Tommy says, standing a little awkwardly a few steps inside. He touches a hand to his hair, looks at Lovett.

Lovett reaches out and touches his chest, palm spread out, thumbing one of the stupid buttons on Tommy's button down. "Did you want me to offer you a water or did you maybe want to kiss me?"

"Uh. Kiss you. Definitely kiss you." 

Lovett grins and leans up, meeting him halfway.

Tommy kisses like it's his sole-minded focus, intense and slow. He brings his hands up, rom-com style, against Lovett's jaw, fingers stretching out against the sides of his face. It should feel smothering, should feel like it's absolutely too much, too soon, but for some reason, it's perfect. Lovett moans and steps closer, lets his fingers dip between buttons. He's thrilled to find that Tommy isn't wearing an undershirt.

"God," Tommy says, breaking the kiss to move his mouth against Lovett's jaw, his hand dropping to his hip, spanning it. "You're so -"

But Lovett doesn't find out what he's 'so' because Tommy's kissing him again, has pressed him up against the wall. He's hard. Lovett can feel him against his hip, and he moans.

"You wanna -?" Lovett asks. 

"What?" Tommy breathes out. "Do I wanna what?"

"Bed," he manages. "Or couch. Couch is closer, fuck."

"Yeah, okay." 

Lovett isn't sure how it all happens but somehow they manage to make it to the couch, which is miraculously clean enough for their purposes. Lovett finds himself on his back, his shirt rucked halfway up his chest, and Tommy's mouth on his stomach as his hands are working his shorts open. Lovett doesn't know what to do with his hands. He decides he wants to touch Tommy's stupid hair, which is soft and the perfect length for him to tangle his fingers into.

Shorts, shoes, socks, they all come off and soon Lovett is in his boxers and Tommy is somehow still dressed but his head is between Lovett's legs and that's - absolutely something. "Can I blow you?" Tommy asks and Lovett must have said something affirmative because then his boxers are gone too and Tommy's mouth - fuck, Tommy's mouth - is taking him down deep and wet, all at once.

"Holy - I didn't - god when I was watching you on that field I had no idea - your mouth - Tommy -" How he's able to say anything at all is a miracle, because it doesn't take long for Tommy to get him fully hard. He's very talented at sucking dick, and Lovett thinks he deserves a reward or something. Later, though. After. 

He tugs at Tommy's hair, hard, when he's close, and Tommy pulls back, finishing Lovett off, wringing the orgasm out of him with his fist, jacking him off fast until he's coming, spurting out and up, right onto Tommy's hand, down his arm, up Lovett's own stomach.

"God," Lovett's gasping, fingers curled against Tommy's shoulder, pulling him up. "Kiss me," he demands. "Kiss me right now and let me -" Everything's hazy because of just coming, because of Tommy's weight on his thighs, but he manages to fumble the buttons open on Tommy's shirt, gets it off, gets his hands on Tommy's chest, his stomach, his fucking abs.

Tommy's kissing him, open mouthed, filthy, his chest hot and solid under Lovett's hands. He has to get his hands further south, squeezes Tommy's hard dick through his tight jeans. Tommy's moan goes straight to intensify Lovett's own arousal, even though he already came. "Sit up," he says, "I need - come on, Tommy. Up -"

Tommy lifts himself up enough for Lovett to get his jeans open, get them and his boxers briefs down, over his ass, halfway down his thighs. Then, finally, he gets his hand on Tommy's dick. 

"Yes," Tommy groans, draws it out, ducks his head. "That's it."

Lovett does the best he can from this angle, even as lose limbed and boneless as he feels. But with the way Tommy's reacting, all shuddering and panting, mouth open, Lovett knows he's doing good enough. Doing great even.

It doesn't take long before Tommy comes, quietly but intensely, tucking his face into the side of Lovett's neck and breathing heavily. They stay like that for a minute, maybe two, maybe five. Before Tommy pushes himself up and off of Lovett, sliding down onto the floor beside the couch. 

Lovett turns his head to look at him, take in the post coital Tommy, sweat at his hairline, face red, cheekbones sharp. He looks good. God, he looks so hot. Lovett swallows, presses his fingers to his eyes before curling a hand against the back of Tommy's warm neck. "Can we do this again?" he asks. "Second inning or whatever?"

"Huh?" Tommy asks, leaning back against Lovett's touch.

"Just. Baseball. It's a metaphor."

Tommy looks at him, mouth open, almost smiling. "Yeah," he says. "If inning is a metaphor for date, I'm in."

"Good," Lovett says. He rubs Tommy's neck and closes his eyes. "Me, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos are always very much appreciated.
> 
> Also, I don't have a podsa tumblr but if you'd like to prompt me for anything, you can [go here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vRLGDsRuzHtsQVH2kKssTWyn-n8goN7th7LJooyWGaAh5dFrY2RD8YzA6Nxwct9jBHiwyUH_OirqWvQ/pub)!


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